


In A Day's Work

by raquetgirl



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: AU, F/M, POV Iris West
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-06
Updated: 2017-11-30
Packaged: 2019-01-30 05:27:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12647025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raquetgirl/pseuds/raquetgirl
Summary: Iris West meets a boy at the office.





	1. Chapter 1

When I was 22, I thought the dream was having a successful career and meeting the perfect boy at work. He would be my absolute equal — interested in the same things I was, he’d be cute and smart, and we’d transition seamlessly from being friends to lovers and our home life would be incredibly productive because we’d be able to talk about work at home, and advance our careers together.

This, of course, is the fault of Joe and Francine West, who met at work (he’s a cop and she’s a cop). And when I was 22, I thought I was going to be a cop just like dear old mom and dad, and my future husband and I would talk about cop business, because that’s what my parents talked about around the dinner table. 

I’m not 22 anymore. I’m not a cop, either, and I dated a guy from work and it wasn’t even in the same dimension as a good idea. His name was (is, I guess, but he’s truly dead to me) Sam, and he’s a crime reporter at the _Picture-News_ , and he’s sitting two desks away from me, yelling into his cell phone at some poor sucker who made the mistake of picking up.

Whatever. Not my problem.

I’ve already figured out the exact position I need to sit in to keep him out of my line of sight, if not earshot, so I shift and turn up the music in my headphones to mask the sound of him yelling.

Unfortunately, that means I can’t hear anything except for the new Willow album until I feel a light tap on my shoulder.

“Iris West?”

It’s a familiar-looking guy, with a hesitant smile and chestnut hair and a folder in hand. I tug the headphones down onto my neck before sitting up straight and trying to ease his nervousness with my best attempt at a reassuring smile. He relaxes by about one micron.

“Hi...you are?” I’m trying to place him.

“Allen— uh Barry. Allen. I work with your dad?”

“RIght! Hey, Allen.” I catch myself using my dad’s name for him—he’s a junior CSI. “Uh, I mean Barry.”

He lights up, and wow, his smile. “Uh, hi.”

The-Allen-Kid is cute. I refrain from saying so because I’m a professional. At work. Except, I forget to say anything as I stare at him. 

He thrusts the folder at me. “I mentioned to your dad I was going to Jitters and, uh, he told me to bring this to you on the way and to get him a black coffee and one of those, um, ‘internet cookies’ on the way back.” He rubs the back of his neck, and I’m not- _not_ noticing the way his bicep flexes under his thin gray sweater. “Doyouknowwhataninternetcookieis?” 

_Internet cookies._ That always makes me laugh, but I hide my smile as I look down at the faded folder and flip it open. It’s been five years, and Dad is still trying to make it up to me that he blocked me from being a cop. Showing, not telling, just like a West. Inside the folder is a 20-year-old closed corruption case that I’d asked my parents about over dinner on Sunday. I’ve been working on a story about the kids of the victim, one of whom seems to be up to some shady business of her own. 

I look back up at Allen, who is still standing in front of me with a puzzled expression on his face. 

The folder goes into my bag and I stand and pull it onto my shoulder. “I’ll come with you.”

Allen steps back to accommodate me as I head toward the exit. “Um... yeah?” He sounds confused.

“It’s 4 p.m. I need coffee.” I look back at him with a smile that I hope is equal parts sexy and sweet. “And lord knows I can’t resist the internet cookies.”

********

Technically, they’re Instagram cookies. As in, they’re everywhere on Instagram. But Dad can’t remember the name of any app that’s not Facebook, so he calls them internet cookies. They’re just chocolate chip, but you have to take them out of the oven a couple of times during baking and _bang!_ the pan down on the counter. It creates these swirls and rings of chocolate and a soft center and crispy edges.

I know this because I used to make them when I worked at Jitters, which was only nine months ago. These taste just the same, though, a testament to my legacy, I guess. Which is what I tell Barry Allen as we’re sitting at a high top in the back, with steaming coffees and a plate piled with baked treats between us. My old boss, Trina, always spoils me when I come in during her shift. 

“How long until you have to be back at the precinct?” I reach for my actual favorite, the mocha brownies. Coffee on coffee.

“I’ve got, uh...” he looks at his watch. It’s a nice watch, on a nice forearm. “22 minutes.”

“Precise.” I raise an eyebrow.

“I have a bad habit of being late.” He shrugs, warm and full-bodied. “I’m trying to get better.”

“Fair enough.” I smile and he smiles back. The conversation has lulled but it’s strangely comfortable. The coffee shop is always a peaceful place on a weekday afternoon, and the bright light and background banging from the espresso machine is soothing. He asks about deadlines and we talk about which detectives are the hardest on him and the time passes.

Eventually Allen sits up straight, and something in his demeanor changes. “What do you think of Gene Kelly?”

“The actor?”

“The one and only.”

“Um, people like him? I don’t really do old movies. Or musicals. I’m more of a Fast and Furious kind of girl.”

Allen puts his hand over his heart like a character in an old movie who’s just been mortally wounded. “Iris!”

I can’t help but laugh at his wounded expression. “Sorry?”

He looks at his watch again. “Eight minutes.” He looks back up at me, and somehow I’m only now just seeing how his pale green eyes catch the light. “ _An American In Paris_ is playing tomorrow night at that movie-in-the-park thing. I’ll bring friends and blankets and hot chocolate. You bring... you?”

“It’s a date.” And I can’t believe I pulled that off, but his smile gets wider and he ducks his head.

“It’s a date,” he echoes me, and before I know it he’s tripping over his legs as he hops off the bar stool. “I gotta go. Get coffee. For your—Joe.”

“Barry—it’s not a problem that you work with my dad.” I reach for his arm and it’s like there’s a thrum or a shiver under his sweater under his skin. “I’m fine with it.”

He pulls away quickly. “Yeah, me too! It’s cool. Bye!”

Allen trips again as he turns away from me, then back again, all while propelling forward. “...tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boy doesn't show up for date.

I showed up at the movie in the park, a little early and a little eager (despite spending way too long figuring out what to wear before settling on a gray bodycon dress that was fairly impractical for sitting in grass but it did great things for my legs and ass). When I got there, I did the thing where you kind of casually hang around, glancing at your phone, not really waiting on anyone, but clocking everyone going by, while you look for your person. A guy with long hair kept waving in my direction, and for a minute I was glad I wasn’t that kind of sucker who made it so clear that he was trying to get someone’s attention. 

Hungry, I eventually got in line for the popcorn and slushies, where I waited patiently, and definitely did not close and reopen my text message app to see if there were new messages, until someone tapped me on the shoulder.

“Iris!”

The long-haired guy. Ugh.

“Hi...?” I sometimes have random people who read my stories come up to me, but that was so rare that I assumed maybe we’d gone to high school together.

“I’m Cisco.” He stuck out a friendly hand, but I knew an appraising smile when I saw one. It wasn’t the creepy sexual kind, it was more like a suspicion underneath his expression. “Barry’s best friend.”

“Oh!” I shook his hand. “Sorry about that...”

“No, no I was waving at you like a drowning man.” Cisco smiled wider, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Barry’s running late, but he’ll be here! Let’s get snacks.”

Cisco kept up a pleasant amount of chatter while we waited in line to get snacks. I don’t know anyone who loves talking about internet quizzes more than him. Finally, laden with popcorn and candy and frozen drinks, we went to sit with some of Barry’s friends: A tall, kind of uptight doctor named Caitlin, a really annoying guy named Hartley, and Linda Park, a junior sports reporter that I kind of knew from work, but hadn’t really crossed paths with, because she worked the high school weekend and night games shift. 

“Tequila?” Linda pulled a flask seemingly out of nowhere. “It’s so good with the cherry slushie.”

We obviously became fast friends after she poured a healthy glug of tequila into both of our drinks. And we got to talking: She had dated Barry briefly in college, but they were just pals now.

“He’s great.” Linda glanced over at me. “And, I hear, so into you.”

I looked down at my legs, stretched out across the blanket and grass. “He’s cute.”

Linda handed me the flask. “He’d be lucky to land you. He’s smart but so, so, so dumb about girls.”

“Why’d you stop dating?” I blurted it out -- I liked her, but I also needed to know if she was competition.

Linda grinned in this way that made me feel like she would never lie to me: “I move... faster than he does. And I’m not the settling-down type.”

We ended up whispering all through the movie, until I realized Barry hadn't showed or texted. 

My messages to him were pretty chill, if I do say so myself: 

_hey there_

_did you get lost? We are super close to the screen._

_ok Linda won't stop making fun of Gene Kelly._

About an hour in, Cisco's reassurances became less reassuring. And then eventually, over the course of the night, Cisco, Caitlin, and Hartley all excused themselves and just never came back. Cisco had a family emergency, Caitlin had a medical thing, and Hartley just gurgled something that I think was Latin. Eventually it was me and Linda, kind of watching this movie with a bunch of singing and dancing, but mostly taking slugs of tequila. And then, get this, there was a ballet at the end of the movie. No singing, just Gene Kelly and a cute French girl dancing for what seemed like an eternity.

Linda finally looked over at me. “This is...not my scene.” 

I shrugged. “But...it’s ladies night at Kamikaze...?”

Reader, we got trashed.

\---

It’s 2 p.m. and I’m finally getting out of bed. I get to the living room and Linda is snoring on my couch, a nubby blanket pulled up to her chin, her black hair spilling over one of the many throw pillows my mother put in my apartment. I go to the bathroom to brush the shag carpeting out of my mouth, and splash some water on my face. My phone rings.

_Barry Allen._

I ignore it. I’m too headachy and in need of food to deal with him. And frankly, though I wouldn’t even admit this to my best friend, a little hurt that he didn’t even explain why he bailed.

The phone rings again. I flip it on its face and leave it on the bathroom counter, going in search of the big French press and the seltzers drunk Iris put in the fridge at 3 a.m. I realize I have no food, and need my phone to order eggs and toast and bacon and hash browns, but I don’t want to get it from the bathroom. I am looking around for Linda’s when there’s a knock at the door.

My little brother Wally comes over like clockwork on Saturday afternoons to watch movies and pester me into baking things he can take back to the dorm, so I head to the door to let him in.

It’s not Wally.

Instead, it’s Allen, with two coffees in a cardboard holder and a bag that says CC Jitters on it. He’s leaning back against the wall opposite my door with a grin.

“What are you doing here?” I know I sound accusing, but I’m halfway to pissed off, and my head still hurts.

“I figured you might want some coffee.” He pushes off of the wall and approaches me with this swagger that puts my back up.

I blink at him. He’s...smug. Screw this. “Why are you at my door? How did you even get into the building?”

“Oh, I have my--”

“Don’t _fucking_ say you have your ways. This isn’t cute.” I’m fully pissed now. “I barely know you. You can’t show up at my door after bailing on me with no explanation. This isn’t a romcom. I’m not impressed by stalking.”

His smile falters.

“Look, Allen-- I had a great time last night, no thanks to you. Let’s keep it that way.” And then--surprising even me--I slam the door in his face.

The sound wakes Linda, who sits up from the sofa, wearing just a bra and jeans, and blinking at me sleepily. “What happened?”

“Nothing.” I sigh and head into the kitchen. “Here, have a seltzer and some ibuprofen. Coffee’ll be ready in a minute.”

Linda spends the rest of the day on the sofa with me, and Wally eventually shows up to insist we watch all of Edgar Wright’s oeuvre, finishing with Baby Driver. I bake Mary Berry’s walnut cake and pack up the leftovers for my brother’s roommates. My work email is pretty quiet, except for a tip on the story about the embezzler’s kids that I’ve been working on. 

Allen calls. I let it go to voicemail, and tell myself I won't listen to it, but I end up reading the transcription.

_Iris. I am so sorry I missed our date. And I’m sorry I showed up at your door uninvited. I get why that would be weird, not cute. Please forgive me. And if you feel like you can, I would love to meet you for a not-weird conversation. You tell me where. I would love to see you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mary Berry's Walnut Cake. It's so good: https://www.bbc.co.uk/food/recipes/marys_frosted_walnut_15679

**Author's Note:**

> No idea where this is going, but I wanted to exercise my fic muscles. Here are the internet cookies: https://www.nytimes.com/2017/09/29/dining/chocolate-chip-cookie-recipe-instagram.html


End file.
